It's Not Too Late

It’s not too late
to build rock walls with your bare hands, 
to lay brick paths, 
weave a nest, 
make sculpture for your garden.

There’s still time 
to draw and paint, 
to make real 
the pictures in your mind, 
and birth the lands you visit 
when you dream.

It’s not too late 
to go to wild places, 
alone, 
and unafraid;
stand on the cliff tops, 
stare at the heaving sea,
drape yourself 
like weed over its rocks. 

You could still remember how to roar; 
make your body strong 
and feel like you belong in it.

It’s not too late to write 
all the things that whisper to you. 
Press your ear to the chest of the earth 
and hear its quiet breathing. 
Trace a vein; 
listen for that which has no name
yet; map it.

You could change gear; 
go slowly; 
move through the world, 
through each day, 
at your own pace;
drop to the grass, 
follow the ant's path 
through its forest 
if you choose.

Disregard the rules. 
Drop them like a heavy coat. 
Follow the call, 
sure as an ancient traveller following stars 
as they sail the blind ocean. 
Set out, 
sail free. 
Navigate by the star that you are.

(From the poetry collection Lullaby for Mothers)